Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  “And what would someone like you ask a god?” Rina asked.

  “Well.” The wizard grinned and sipped wine. “It’s a long story.”

  “Who … I mean what.…” The wine was in her head. Her thoughts swimming. She had trouble wrapping her mouth around the words. “What kind of god is Kashar?”

  “The snake and the eye,” Talbun said. “Knowledge and the ability to put it to use quickly. To strike at the right time. A god for thieves and gamblers and opportunists.”

  “What about exiled duchesses?” Rina smiled crookedly, drank wine and spilled some down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  “The gods aren’t so generous,” the wizard said, “but I am.”

  “Are you?”

  Talbun laughed softly. “No. Not really. But I owe Weylan. And I’ll honor his memory.”

  “You have a tattoo for me.”

  “Yes.”

  Rina sobered, or tried to. “Tell me.”

  “I can make you fast” Talbun said. “Faster than a deer escaping a hunter. A tattoo that goes on your ankles. You could outrun an arrow, a flood, an avalanche, and the world would be a blur in your eyes.” She shrugged. “But I need the components. Some very rare ingredients. If you want the lightning bolts, you’ll have to fetch them.”

  “Just tell me. I’ll get them.”

  “Will you?” The wizard’s face was a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Not the sort of thing you can pick up at the local market.”

  “Tell me how.” Rina felt like she was floating. She sipped wine, felt it burn warm down her throat.

  “We need the ash from a holy tree,” Talbun said. “There’s one at the top of the mountain. An ember from the fire of a lightning strike.”

  Rina laughed. She understood the wine had taken over but didn’t care. “So you’re saying I have to wait for a storm. Sit around here until lightning strikes?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Talbun said. “I’ll call the storm. We’ll have lightning by tomorrow afternoon.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Brasley thrust himself savagely into the woman on all fours in front of him, shaking the feather bed so hard he thought it might rattle apart. She squealed sharply with each thrust, pushing her soft ass back at him in perfect rhythm, flesh slapping flesh.

  To Brasley’s pleasant surprise, Elise’s cousin Fregga was an absolute animal in bed.

  “Take me, Sir Brasley,” she grunted breathlessly. “Faster! Harder! Make me your wench!”

  Brasley thrust harder.

  Fregga had a long, dull face and bland eyes, but underneath her dress she had a curvaceous body with a round, plump ass and large heavy breasts that swung beneath her as Brasley took her from behind. Her body began the slow tremble that signaled her approaching climax.

  Fregga had been surprised and grateful when Elise told her that a handsome, young nobleman had wanted to meet her. That gratitude had manifested itself three hours later with Fregga’s head between Brasley’s legs in the back of a closed carriage, her warm, wet mouth eager to please.

  Afterward, she’d been bewildered anew when Brasley had said he simply had to meet her again the next day. She’d smiled so broadly it had almost split her face in two. Had love at last found plain, dull Fregga?

  The guest quarters above her father’s carriage house provided a much more comfortable and private spot for a rendezvous. It simply wouldn’t do for the Minister of Trade’s daughter to be seen climbing the stairs to a young nobleman’s room in some low-rent inn.

  Brasley held her hips, fingers sinking into soft flesh. A glowing sheen of sweat covered both of them. He pulled her back into him as he thrust. He was getting close now too.

  Fregga grunted through gritted teeth, guttural. A spasm shook her body and she went rigid. “Yes, oh, yes!”

  That sent Brasley over the edge, and he finished inside her. They collapsed together, panting.

  She curled next to him, purring. “Tomorrow. We have to do that again tomorrow. That was … amazing.”

  “Actually,” Brasley said, “I thought I’d quite like to meet your father tomorrow. If it can be arranged, I mean.”

  Fregga gasped, and Brasley was suddenly concerned he’d overplayed his hand.

  She propped herself up on one elbow, looked straight into his face. “You want to meet my father? You’re serious?”

  “Well …” Brasley shrugged. A crooked smile. “I mean, if we’re going to carry on like this …” He let the suggestion hang there. It was a way of suggesting something without promising anything, and Brasley felt suddenly like a bit of a bastard.

  He shoved the feeling away and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Oh, Brasley!” She threw her arms around him and pulled him close, burying her face into his neck. “Oh, my darling Brasley. I love you. I love you so much.”

  Yes, I was afraid of that. I really am an utter bastard, aren’t I?

  * * *

  The next morning Brasley put on his best outfit, a black doublet with silver piping and a scarlet cape worn off one shoulder. Black pants tucked into high black boots. He’d polished the boots. He was freshly bathed and shaved. His polished sword and scabbard hung from a braided leather belt.

  He presented himself at the front door of Count Becham’s mansion. Fregga had alerted the butler that Brasley was coming, so the butler, accustomed to seeing nobility come and go in the manor, regarded Brasley with mild boredom but didn’t balk at admitting him and escorting him through the ornate mansion and down a long hall to Becham’s private study.

  A second before the butler entered the study ahead of him, he glanced back down the hall and spotted Fregga peeking around the corner at him, face nervous.

  Brasley summoned a confident smile and winked at her.

  He followed the butler into the study.

  “Sir Brasley Hammish of Klaar.” The butler bowed and then excused himself.

  Count Becham rose from a plush, wingback chair, squinted at Brasley.

  “Count Becham.” Brasley smiled and extended his hand, crossing the room.

  As he approached the count to shake hands, he took in his surroundings. Shelves lined with leather-bound books. Expensive. Carved knickknacks of rare polished stone. Thick rugs and heavy velvet drapes on either side of a window that overlooked a well-manicured garden. A large desk carved from rich exotic wood. The room seemed pristine, unlived in, as if the owner thought it useful to display the trappings of wealth with little appreciation for the objects themselves.

  Becham himself ran to fat, the result of a soft, privileged life, jowls and muttonchop side whiskers the same white as his hair. He wore a long, black coat and a red vest with a pattern of wavy lines, a ruffled silk shirt and house shoes with large silver buckles.

  Becham shook Brasley’s hand, at the same time eyeing Brasley like he wasn’t sure why he was shaking Brasley’s hand.

  “I know you’re a busy man, sir,” Brasley said. “I’m most grateful you’ve made time for me this morning. Very generous.”

  “Yes … well.” Becham cleared his throat, pinned Brasley with an openly curious stare. “Who are you?”

  Brasley blinked. “Uh … Sir Brasley—”

  Becham waved away Brasley’s words. “Not your name, boy. I heard my man clearly enough. I mean, why are you here, and what business do we have? I don’t even know how you go on to my daily agenda.”

  Brasley felt sudden respect for Fregga’s cunning. Somehow she’d arranged this. Perhaps she had some sway with the count’s personal secretary.

  “It is about your daughter. If you’ll allow me to explain—”

  “My daughter?” Becham frowned, took a menacing step forward. “What about my daughter? Has something happened?”

  Brasley’s hands came up quickly in a placating gesture. “Sir, nothing alarming has happened, I assure you.”

  “Talk, boy. I’m losing patience.”

  “I met Fregga recently at her cousin Elise’s tea p
arty,” Brasley explained. “I’ve come to ask permission to see her socially.”

  “You want to see my daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “My daughter Fregga?”

  Brasley was given to understand that the Count had four daughters, two of whom were younger than Fregga. The other three were already married and had been taken off the Count’s hands.

  “Naturally, I intend to pursue the matter with all proprieties intact and to follow all appropriate social customs.” This was as much as Brasley could say without actually declaring his intent to court Fregga for marriage.

  And he was not quite willing to go that far.

  “Oh.” A slow comprehension dawned in Becham’s face. “Oh!”

  The possibility that Becham might be close to unloading his final daughter changed the tone of the conversation dramatically.

  Becham slapped Brasley on the back and grinned. “You’ve chosen wisely, my good man. Wisely! Fregga is a fine woman.”

  The Count produced a decanter of good brandy and a pair of fat chuma sticks. He filled two crystal goblets and lit the chuma sticks with a candle. They puffed and drank. Small talk. Becham asked about the long trip from Klaar to Merridan. Brasley said it was good to bask in warmer climes.

  “What does bring you to the capital?” asked the Count.

  “I’ve been appointed envoy to speak on behalf of Klaar.” The letter from Rina was tucked inside Brasley’s doublet in case he needed to produce some proof of this claim.

  “Ah, a man of importance,” Becham said. “Working our way up in the world, eh? Grooming yourself for his majesty’s diplomatic corps, perhaps?”

  Let the man think what he wants. “For now it is enough to serve Klaar.”

  “So what do you have planned for our young Fregga, eh?”

  Becham might have been inquiring about Brasley’s long-term intentions.

  Brasley chose to understand the question a different way. “There is a recital the day after tomorrow on the palace lawn. Weather permitting. Naturally, I welcome whatever chaperones would satisfy propriety.”

  “Of course, of course,” the Count said. “I could tell right away you were a man of good breeding. I’m sure we have an old aunt clanking around the manor somewhere who can accompany you.”

  “Then with your permission, I’ll take your leave, sir. The business of Klaar keeps me constantly busy.” This was a lie but a fiction he wanted to establish right away in case he needed to weasel out of dinner invitations or other tedious family gatherings.

  “Naturally,” said the Count. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  Brasley bowed slightly and turned toward the door. Not too fast. Give the man a chance.

  “Sir Brasley?”

  Brasley paused in the door way, turned back to the count. “Sir?”

  “I realize you’re new to the city,” Becham said. “If there is anything I can do to help, I hope you’ll ask.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I don’t think …” Brasley cocked his head as if a thought were just now occurring to him. “Actually, there might be something, but I hate to trouble you.”

  “Come now. Let’s have it.”

  “I’m off to the Royal Bank later to establish Klaar’s line of credit,” Brasley said. “Can you recommend the name of a clerk there who might help speed the process?”

  Becham’s belly laugh filled the room. “Rest at ease, Sir Brasley. You might not realize this, but of all the people in Merridan, you’ve come to the one man who has the Royal Bank in his back pocket. Don’t give it a second thought.”

  And just like that the final element of Brasley’s scheme clicked into place.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Tosh sat at a corner table in the Bawdy Baron. It was an upscale pub, and Mother had provided him with clothes good enough to pass him off as a reasonably well-to-do merchant. The shoes pinched his feet. Tenni sat next to him looking beautiful in a yellow dress fit for a merchant’s wife. Mother had given her the longest, bulkiest fur cloak she could find to hide Tenni’s sword.

  They ate a meal and sipped good wine. Tosh drank the wine too fast. He was nervous. He nodded for one of the barmaids to refill his goblet. Better a little drunk than nervous. Nerves could paralyze a man when he needed to strike.

  But too drunk could make him sloppy.

  Tosh was there to kill a man, and he wanted it finished.

  He pushed the food around in his dish with a spoon. No appetite. He reached for the wine, made himself stop, then reached for it again and drank.

  Tenni put her hand on his other arm. “Easy.”

  He looked at her, offered a crooked smile that failed miserably to convince her he was just fine. “Why aren’t you as jittery as I am?”

  “I’m having a fine meal with my man, and I’m wearing a pretty dress,” Tenni said. “What could be better?”

  He brought the goblet to his lips again.

  “Slow down,” Tenni said.

  Tosh frowned but set the goblet back on the table.

  His eyes flicked to the bar where Urma helped her mother pour drinks. He caught her eye, and the girl shook her head. No sign of their prey yet.

  “Who has Emmon?” Tosh asked.

  “Prinn.”

  Tosh nodded. After Tenni, Prinn and Darshia were the best with a sword, and for that reason, he’d picked them for tonight. But Mother had overruled him. Tosh picked a pair of pretty blondes instead, Anne and Ralline, since they seemed level-headed and hopefully wouldn’t panic when blades flashed from scabbards and blood splattered.

  When Tosh had asked why he couldn’t have Prinn and Darshia, all Mother would say was that she’d explain later.

  “I don’t like this place,” Tenni said.

  “I thought you were glad for the chance to wear that pretty dress.”

  She frowned, her eyes sweeping the room before settling on Tosh. “I like the dress. But this place is too full of people worried how they look in their dresses or their fine doublets. Somehow a dank Backgate tavern seems more honest.”

  “Yes, honest,” Tosh said. “When they stick a knife between your ribs, you never have to wonder why. Sometimes I think—”

  All heads turned to look at the newcomers coming through the pub’s front door, cold wind blowing in with them. Under the thin man’s furs Tosh glimpsed brightly colored silk robes. A Perranese official of some rank. Three guards with him, furs draped over full armor, swords swinging at their sides. Tosh guessed who it was but glanced at Urma anyway.

  Urma nodded.

  “That’s Dra’Kreeto,” Tosh whispered to Tenni.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “When?”

  “Let him eat and drink and get sluggish,” Tosh said. “Then let the girls go to work.”

  “Right.”

  “We’ve got some time,” Tosh told her. “We’ll need to be ready to leave when he does, but it has to look natural.”

  “I know.”

  “We can’t follow too close,” Tosh whispered. “We just need to block the way in case Boon and Lubin—”

  “I know.”

  Tosh raised an eyebrow.

  “Damn it, now I’m nervous.” She reached for her own goblet of wine and drained it.

  The serving girl returned, and they let her refill the goblets.

  “If this goes right, we won’t have to lift a finger.”

  Tenni frowned at him. “You don’t think I can do my part?”

  “I know you can,” Tosh said. “Don’t be so eager for blood.”

  She tilted the goblet back again, not looking at him.

  Tosh shifted his eyes to Anne and Ralline across the pub. They were also making special point of not looking at him. He just hoped they knew what to do and when.

  You’ve got to trust other people, man. You can’t do it all yourself.

  But he was responsible. These girls were here because he’d taught them the sword. If he hadn’t done that, Mother never would have—

  No. Focus. You
’ve got bloodshed to do and you don’t want to fuck it up.

  They sipped wine and waited. The serving wenches cleared the empty plates away from Dra’Kreeto’s table. They brought him a thick and expensive sifter of brandy and a fat chuma stick. He smoked slowly, touching his brandy only occasionally.

  Tosh watched Anne and Ralline.

  Anne and Ralline watched Dra’Kreeto.

  Tosh had to give the girls credit. They were patient. Urma had told them to wait until the Perranese official was two-thirds through the brandy. Tosh was sweating behind the ears. He glanced at Dra’Kreeto’s guards at another table. They sipped tea, sober and calm and big. They looked like they could kill everyone in the pub without breaking a sweat.

  This is stupid. You’re going to get killed. Get up and walk out now.

  Tosh glanced at Tenni. No. She wouldn’t leave, and he wouldn’t leave without her.

  He drank wine. He sweated under the arms now.

  Anne and Ralline rose from their table and moved toward Dra’Kreeto. His glass was nearly empty.

  Tosh felt like he might vomit. His eyes shifted to the Perranese soldiers. They took no notice the girls.

  Anne and Ralline paused at Dra’Kreeto’s table. Casual. Just a couple of working girls. The Bawdy Baron wasn’t like the Wounded Bird, but of course there were working girls. Dressed nicely but showing just enough cleavage to make it clear what sort of wares they peddled. Urma had explained how it worked here. The establishment didn’t own the girls, but they got a kickback from any action. It was an arrangement that favored the tavern since they could kick out any of the girls who got too aggressive and disturbed the patrons.

  Anne and Ralline weren’t aggressive. They almost passed Dra’Kreeto’s table without stopping, casting a glance, a quick smile. They were dressed just right, so the Perranese chamberlain would know exactly what they were. Prostitutes. The girls’ attire at the Wounded Bird tended toward flimsy shifts and loose robes that fell open at opportune times. Such displays wouldn’t do amid the upstanding patrons of the Bawdy Barron.

  The girls wore tight dresses which offered more than the average show of cleavage, yet remained within the bounds of propriety. A bright paper flower tucked behind the ear let clients know a girl was open for business. They weren’t allowed to approach potential customers, but if a man beckoned them over they could then conduct any business they liked, as long as the pub got its share.